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In the middle of the room sat a long table, and on that table was a portable launcher and four missiles.
Bailey stood back so John could have the room he needed to check them out. As he brushed against her, she maneuvered her body until his hand brushed against the heavy weight of the gun she was carrying.
His head jerked back to her in shock, his gaze narrowing as he felt the weapon before he turned back to the table and began to check the weapons.
This was it. It was almost over.
She leaned back against the wall and shoved her hands into her pockets. Her fingers curled around the butt of the gun, and in it she found a measure of comfort, as well as concern.
Myron had betrayed Warbucks? It didn’t make sense. Nearly two decades of following the traitor and suddenly he was turning on him. Why would he do that?
“This is it,” John murmured as he checked first one missile, then the other. “The product is viable and authentic.”
She watched as he covered the watch with his other hand, his fingers activating whatever it had been designed for. Shit was going to hit the fan, she could feel it.
“We have an auction then?” she asked.
At the same moment the skin tag at her lower back begin to burn. That one was for one purpose. They had ten seconds to take cover.
One. Two. Three. She stared at John, seeing his face as he carefully laid a wooden cover over the box that protected the missiles.
Four. Five. Six. She moved to the entrance of the office, checked the empty building beyond them.
Seven. Eight. Nine. She gripped Myron’s and Raymond’s jackets and gave a hard jerk, pul
ling them into the office as all hell outside began to let loose.
“Here.” She pulled the gun from her pocket and passed it to John as gunfire began to erupt and voices began to scream in warning.
How many damned mercenaries were there?
Turning to Raymond and Myron, she shot them a hard look as John moved to the door and looked out carefully.
“Stay here, you’ll be safe,” she yelled at them.
Raymond looked dangerous, furious. His weaselly expression was pulled into hard, cold lines as he glared at both her and John and then the weapon.
“Ask him.” She nodded to Myron. “He’s the one who gave it to me.”
Myron slunk to the corner of the room, then slowly let his body slide down until he was hunched into a protective ball, his face pale, frightened at the sounds of gunfight outside.
“We have to get to Warbucks before he gets out of here,” Bailey yelled to John.
“We protect the missiles,” he bit out, his voice commanding. “We’ll get Warbucks. If these missiles get away, then we’re fucked.”
If Warbucks got away, then they were all fucked anyway. She couldn’t promise that Myron would turn on the man he was obviously so close to.
“Fine, you protect the missiles.” Before he could stop her she was out the door.
She heard him yelling before her, his voice brutally enraged, as she tore off her coat to give her freedom of movement, then jumped behind several wooden boxes for cover.
Mercenaries were trying to clear the path for the limo. A heavy army truck blocked the exit, but several men were fighting to get to it.
Heading for the limo, she worked her way around the boxes, moving behind one of the soldiers silently, her gaze trained on his body, her mind on the automatic weapon he was carrying.
She was within feet of him when a shot sounded behind her and the soldier slumped to the floor, gun and all.
Whirling around she stared in shock at John.
